Legacy
by AKA DD
Summary: Spoiler Crossroad Blues & Faith. Dean returns to Nebraska to find his faith again, only to have it tested further as he comes facetoface with the powerful Crossroads Demon again. This time, he bargains for his soul, to right a wrong from the past. Who c
1. Chapter 1: Miracles

**DISCLAIMER: Supernatural, in all its glory, doesn't belong to me.**

**A/N: This follows Crossroad Blues in the timeline, but has a very heavy emphasis on Faith. **

**Short Summary: What happens when faith is lost, and the devil comes around, instead?**

**Long Summary: Dean returns to Nebraska to find his faith again…only to have it tested even further as he comes face-to-face with the powerful Hekataia, Demon of the Crossroads again. This time, he tries to make a bargain for his soul, to right a wrong from the past. Who can save Dean this time? **

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**CHAPTER ONE: Miracles**

"Here you go," the waitress slid his plate in front of him, and Dean Winchester smiled at the pretty redhead.

"Thanks."

She—Hannah, as her nametag told him—smiled invitingly at him, her green eyes appreciative. "Is there anything _else_ I can get you?"

Dean smiled at her, but knew that it didn't reach his eyes. On any other day, he might have just taken up Hannah on her offer. But tonight, he couldn't muster the desire. It wasn't that she wasn't beautiful. She was cute, had all the right curves, and legs for days.

No, it wasn't Hannah. It was him.

He was tired.

Soul-tired. Heavy inside, dulled all around, and hard like ice. Cold-tired. Untouchable.

"No, thanks," he replied with a half-hearted attempt at a friendly smirk. "Maybe some other time, Hannah,"

The little spark in Hannah's eyes doused itself, and she smiled regretfully at Dean. "All right, then. Enjoy your meal."

He nodded briskly, then turned to look at his food.

Suddenly, his stomach churned at the sight of his meal. It wasn't that the food looked unappetizing. It was steak: medium-rare, still bloody on the inside, lightly browned outside, soft and juicy—just the way he liked it.

No, it wasn't his food. It was him.

He was too unsettled—like a raging storm was inside of him, and it made his stomach toss and turn. It made everything taste like ash in his mouth. He put down his fork and knife, and stared at his food. He wondered if he should ask for a refund.

"Dean…"

The woman's voice sang out his name. It was soft, slightly lilting, very sweet. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was a voice he would recognize even in his dreams.

"Layla," he whispered in disbelief, long before he looked up to see her standing in front of him.

She smiled widely. It was the smile that he remembered from his dreams: red lips that curved prettily, eyes that crinkled at the corners. The blue of those eyes so dark they were almost black, but sparkled with genuine interest. He remembered the tilt of her head that was so disarming, yet artless.

He had labeled all of that long ago in his mind: Layla's smile.

He blinked rapidly, afraid that he was envisioning something that shouldn't be there.

"Hi," she said softly, and approached his table tentatively, her gloves and scarf dangling from her hands.

He still couldn't say anything.

Layla had had a brain tumor. She had been dying. Should have been dead, as far as the doctors had told her. But she was standing before him, looking as real as could be.

He stood up briskly, as if suddenly just remembering his manners. "Layla," he said again, her name sounding unreal to his ears. He hadn't spoken her name out loud since they had said goodbye. But he had whispered her name in his heart as he prayed for her—just like he had promised.

She was the only person he ever even glanced at a church reverently for.

His lips curved to a tentative smile as he gestured for her to sit across the table from him. "Hi!" he said, his voice sounding slightly high-pitched and awkward, "What…uh, what are you doing here?"

He almost slapped his palm onto his face in exasperation. It sounded like he was asking her why the hell she was alive when she was supposed to have died a year ago. It was why he had left Sam to go on this road trip alone. He had wanted to just…well, it was sentimental, but he had wanted to pay his respects.

She smiled even more, the kindness that he had always remembered about her still hung around her like a protective cloak. "I live here, remember?" she joked lightly, her eyes crinkling with amusement.

She slid into the booth, and Dean plopped back onto his seat, still feeling slightly awkward. In a way, he had a right to be awkward. He had come back to put flowers on her grave, not see her alive. "Uh…yeah, I remember." _Only too well._

She looked at him as if reading his thoughts, then shrugged lightly, "Go ahead, ask it," she encouraged, her lips twisted into an amused smile. "Ask, Layla, how are you doing?"

Dean half-snorted, half-chuckled, but he asked her anyway. "Layla, how are you doing?"

"I got my miracle."

Dean blinked once. Twice. Then a smile worked its way onto his lips, until his whole face followed. Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand in his, and squeezed. "I'm glad."

And he was. He really was.

Something eased inside his heart, like ice shackles finally melting. He realized how hungry he was all of a sudden. His stomach growled, and Layla laughed.

It was a sound that warmed him, melting more of the ice inside. He realized that he still held her hand in his—he was no longer untouchable, either. Her fingers were long and thin, soft and warm. She made no move to take her hand from his, and he held fast.

For a moment, Dean felt his cynicism melt away. For a moment, he just let himself believe in her miracle. For a moment, Dean forgave himself for being alive—for not being able to save Layla.

She had never once questioned Dean's right to be cured. She had accepted it all with her trademark smile, a small nod, and wished him well for the rest of his life. In fact, she had cherished the fact that he had been cured far more than he ever did.

Dean looked away, as he remembered how _she _had tried to reassure him that he was going to be okay. Even when it had been _she _who had been dying.

He cleared his throat, and slipped his hand off of hers. "Join me?" he invited, already trying to catch the waitress's attention.

"Sure," she replied easily. "I haven't had anything most of the day."

Hannah approached the table. "Hey, Layla, the usual?"

"Yes, thanks, Hannah."

"Come here often?" he asked of her.

"All the time," she smiled.

Dean noticed Hannah looking back and forth between the two of them. "So, you two know each other?" the waitress asked, tapping her pen on her notepad thoughtfully.

He cleared his throat, unsure how to explain exactly what they were. Layla was someone who had passed through his life once, and he in hers. She had touched him in that quiet way of hers—changed him, just a little bit. What did that make her to him? What was he to her? A stranger you come across once or twice in your life?

But Layla smiled at his discomfort, and introduced him. "This is Dean. He's an old friend."

_An old friend_.

Dean accepted that. "Yeah, yeah," he acknowledged with a slow, but genuine smile now. Hannah smiled warmly at him, "Nice to meet you, Dean." After a light squeeze on Layla's shoulder, she left to put in the order.

"So, how is Sam?" asked Layla.

"You remember him, too," he remarked with a small grin.

She rolled her eyes, "Dean, I doubt that you and your brother are on anyone's 'easy-to-forget-list'."

Dean scratched his head lightly and shrugged. "Thanks, I guess," he chuckled. Then he looked at her suspiciously, "Wait, is that a good thing?"

She laughed. "Definitely a good thing."

He nodded amiably and shrugged. "Sam…he's all right. Still…Sam."

"He's a good kid, Dean," she remarked. "Loves you a lot. Least, enough to believe in something he considered unbelievable."

Dean ducked his head and sniffled self-consciously. In Layla's eyes, he was still the walking, breathing miraculous result of Roy Le Grange's faith. She never knew about the Reaper. She would _never_ know about the Reaper.

But she still had a point there. Sam hadn't known about the Reaper until _after _Dean had been healed. Sam _had _believed, if only for a fleeting moment. "Yeah," he croaked uneasily, hating the reminder of his brush with Death. "He's a good kid."

Her smile broke a bit, as she noticed his discomfort. This time it was she who reached across the table and touched his sleeve. "Everything good?"

Dean felt like ice inside again. No matter how bright and warm Layla was, she would never understand that nothing in his life was ever just _good._

Nothing.

He looked into her concerned midnight eyes, and forced himself to nod once. "Course," he lied blandly.

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push either. He felt a gentle squeeze on his wrist before she let go.

Her food arrived, giving Dean the moment to recover. He shoved food into his mouth, even when they tasted like ash all over again. What was he doing back here? What right did he have to come back to her? What brought him back?

The answer was simple: his encounter with the Crossroads Demon had shaken him. It had shaken him so badly that he had needed a reminder that there were people who had faith enough to weather through the evils in their lives.

He had _needed_ to remember that. He had wanted to remember her. He had desperately needed her strength.

"Dean?"

Her lilting voice brought him back out of his reverie. "Oh, uh…hmm?"

Her lips quirked, "I said that you look like you're having an attack of a guilty conscience for eating a cow,"

He chuckled in surprise, allowing himself to the warmth of the present. He grinned at her appreciatively, a small spark back inside of him. "You know…I never pegged you as being a comedian. Ha. Ha." He drawled sarcastically.

"Well, that's okay. I initially wrote you off as a chauvinistic jack-ass. Never pegged you as a sensitive, prayerful type."

He gave her the slow, appreciative smile again. It was the same smile he had flashed at her the first time they met, outside of Roy Le Grange's tent. It was a smile that told her that she wasn't very far-off from her initial assessment.

A blond, perfectly-arched eyebrow went up in response his smile. "Dean." There was playful reproof in her voice.

He shrugged and leaned back onto his seat, eyeing her appreciatively. "Let's put it this way, Layla, this chauvinistic jack-ass only ever prays for you."

She burst out laughing. But it was an appreciative laugh, her eyes never leaving his, dancing happily. "That's the most original pick-up line I've ever heard. You just might get points for that."

"I was a little proud of it myself," he grinned.

She nodded, a small, comfortable silence descending between them. "I'm glad you're here, Dean." She said honestly. "What brings you to Nebraska? Work?"

Dean looked away for a moment and licked his lips before answering. "No…uh…not really."

She looked expectantly at him, but Dean didn't say anything else. He smiled feebly at her, then shoved a piece of steak into his mouth, effectively excusing himself from having to say anything more. She smiled that smile. And again, she didn't push. But she told him well enough with her eyes that she knew he wasn't being very forthcoming.

"How's your mom?" he asked changing the subject. He grimaced slightly as he remembered the fierce older lady. She had been the one who had unflinchingly voiced out his biggest fears. Right to his face.

_Why? Why is your life worth saving more than my daughter's?_

Dean honestly didn't know back then. He still didn't know now. And it wasn't just Layla's life. There was the other guy whose life had been taken in exchange for his. And then there was…his father.

He was so caught up in his own dismal thoughts that he almost missed the flash of sorrow that passed over Layla's face. He leaned forward, a concerned frown knitting his brows. "Layla? What is it?"

"She died."

Dean felt himself shut down briefly. The mention of death always did that to him. He mentally shook himself. He licked his suddenly-dry lips. "I'm sorry," he whispered, even knowing that his words were mostly ineffectual to ease the kind of grief she must have felt.

"Yeah. Me, too."

His eyes flickered at the regret he heard in her voice. "Tell me," he urged.

She looked away from him again, her face taking on a far-away, almost confused look. "She never knew I got better. They said she died just a few moments after I was healed. Nobody could explain it. She just fell dead—her heart just stopped."

A cold hand clutched Dean's heart. He closed his eyes, but his mind was already acknowledging what his heart still refused to. _No…no, no, no, no! _he thought frantically. _Just no._

He opened his eyes, and saw her looking away from him, trying to hold back tears, a tremulous smile on her face. It was the same smile that she wore when she had told him about her brain tumor. Wobbly, valiant, so very brave.

"Layla…how…how did you get healed?" he asked in a low, almost hushed whisper.

Her dark blue eyes slowly slid sideways to meet his. "Nobody knows. One moment, I had gone brain dead, in the next, I just woke up…like from a bad dream. And I was completely healed. No trace of a tumor, nothing."

Dean bit his lip, fury washing over him. He knew that he was shaking, his jaw clenched so tight, it was near-shattering.

"It was like a miracle."

"Don't _say that_," he bit out hoarsely, harsher than he had intended.

"Dean…?" she asked tentatively, reaching for his hand, her fingers brushing his clenched knuckles. "What's wrong?"

What's wrong? _What's wrong?_ What's wrong was that Dean knew with every fiber of his being that _everything_ was wrong.

There were no miracles after all.

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"Sam, I need you here, right now." Dean said harshly over the phone.

Sam Winchester rolled his shoulders and cracked his eyelid open, eyes searching for the clock. It was 3:20 in the morning.

"Where exactly are you, Dean?" he mumbled sleepily. "You left me here without much to go on, remember?" He couldn't quite stop the bitterness from seeping into his voice. What Dean had just done to him was too much like what their father had done to them.

He just left. Disappeared. Leaving only a vague trail, and even vaguer directions.

He heard the distinct sigh from the other end. "Sam, I just needed…"

Sam waited, holding his breath. But the rest of the statement never came. Instead, he heard a small irritated growl.

"Talk to me, Dean," he implored his brother.

Silence. The painful kind of silence that meant he was being shut out. "I'm worried about you!" he cried at his brother.

"And I'm touched. Really, I am." The tone was dripping with sarcasm.

His brother's deadpan voice irritated Sam, but he knew that nothing could make Dean talk if he didn't want to talk just yet. But he had to try. "Dean—"

He was cut off by Dean literally yelling in his ear, "Just get your ass up here in Nebraska!"

Sam had to flinch away from the phone in shocked surprise. Dean very rarely ever yelled. Something was really pushing his brother's buttons. "I'm up, okay," he said calmly on the phone, dropping the current subject and picking up the new one. "What's going on?"

He pushed his blankets off of him and almost groaned as the cold air made contact with his bare legs. His arms had goosebumps all over them, and his plain white shirt wasn't much protection against the cold. He stood up and looked around for his things, mentally checking off items he needed to re-pack into his duffel.

"Sam…it's the demon."

Dean's blunt voice made the statement even heavier. Sam dropped back onto the bed with the weight of the revelation. "Wait…wait," he whispered breathlessly on the phone. "_The_ Demon?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know. Not sure. _A_ demon. _Something!_"

Dean's voice was rose higher with every word that he spoke, still clearly disturbed. Sam stifled the disappointment inside of him. He slowly stood back up, and pushed any thoughts about The Demon away for the moment. "Well, can you tell me anything more about…this…thing? I mean, we can't go in guns blazing, not even knowing what we're shooting at."

"That's why I need you here, Sherlock," barked Dean, still agitated.

Sam was already half-done with his packing. He frowned heavily at his brother's uncharacteristic snappishness. "Look, I gotta go to the Greyhound Station; where exactly are you in Nebraska?"

"Why take the bus?" asked Dean, "Steal a car. It's much faster."

"Are you completely off your hinges, man?" asked Sam, his brows knitted together with irritation and concern. He laid his phone on his shoulder, and pulled on a pair of jeans. "I mean, you're already being closely monitored by the FBI, you wanna draw more attention?"

"Think of it this way, Sammy," drawled Dean, his tone a little more like the old Dean. "Maybe then, you can be as popular as me. I mean, we can't have all them folks thinking that you're just an innocent, harmless young man now, can we?"

"For the last time, I'm not jealous!" cried Sam, in frustration, as he pulled on a flannel shirt and a jacket. He stuck a black beanie onto his head and took a final look around the motel room he'd been staying in for the last couple of days. "Look, Dean, I'm not gonna…"

But his older brother cut him off. "Just get here. Now."

Sam stepped out into the cold night air and sighed, watching as a heavy gray puff of mist formed. He hiked his duffel over his shoulder and started walking the general direction of the parking lot. "Where exactly is _here_?"

"Webster, Nebraska."

Sam almost tripped over his own feet. "Web--," he choked. "_Roy Le Grange_, Webster, Nebraska?" he clarified.

"One and only."

"What are you doing there?" asked Sam incredulously. "I thought you said you wouldn't go anywhere near him and his flock again?"

"It's personal."

"Dean—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sam!" cried Dean over the phone. "Just haul your fat ass over here already."

But Sam had already drawn his own conclusions. "Layla."

There was silence on the other end, and he knew that he had hit the bull's eye on that one guess. Sometimes, his brother was too predictable in his unpredictability. But then again, there were very few people in this life that had truly mattered to Dean. And the only one in Webster, Nebraska was Layla Rourke.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," he whispered, knowing that she had had less than a year to live the last time they had seen her.

"She's alive." His brother's voice was blunt and emotionless. "But her mother's dead."

Sam clenched his jaw, beginning to see the pattern. But he refused to see the pattern. "Just because of that…_coincidence_, doesn't mean anything out of the ordinary is happening," he cautioned his brother. But he couldn't deny the warning bells that rang in his own head. He could only imagine how much louder they would be in Dean's head.

"You don't get it,"

"Explain it."

There was a pause, and Sam took the moment to look around the parking lot, looking for a ride. He glanced up towards the road, watching the occasional car pass by swiftly.

"Same MO. Unexplained death. Unexplained cure."

"Are you sure, Dean?" he asked, as he made his way towards the edge of the road.

"You think I'm calling you to come over here because I miss you?" Dean scoffed over the phone, "Be here in four hours."

"Fine." Sam sighed, "And my ass is not fat." He muttered just before he flipped his phone shut. He dropped his phone into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small Swiss army knife instead. He found an inconspicuous-looking, gray, Ford and headed straight for that one.

_This is an emergency_, he consoled himself, then he jacked the car. It wasn't like he'd never done this before. And besides, he had a hunt to attend.

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**A/N2: Hope this is going well. It's my first Supernatural multi-chaptered fic. The goal is to have it done before Thursday, December 7, 2006. Here's to hoping. Because then, the storyline of the show might change by then…and I'd lose my motivation to finish this. Haha.**


	2. Chapter 2: Disguised

**DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and those delicious Winchester Men don't belong to me. Aw, shucks.**

**A/N1: Most of the lore in this story is my interpretation of several things I learned in my Ancient Religion class, so if anyone is actually quite informed on these things, please don't yell at me. I just made them up.**

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**CHAPTER 2: DISGUISED**

"We're sneaking into Layla's house?" asked Sam, his voice ringing with disbelief at the audacity of what they were about to do. He and Dean were casually strolling down the sidewalk, their hands stuffed deeply into their down feather jackets, puffs of mist blowing out of their mouths and noses.

Dean had picked Sam up two counties away from Webster, where he had ditched the stolen Ford. Now, the Impala was parked two blocks away from Layla's place.

"That's the plan," his brother replied with a casual shrug of his broad shoulders.

Sam grabbed the elbow of Dean's jacket to stop him. "Dude!" he protested. "Not only is that all kinds of illegal, we don't even have any evidence of anything supernatural happening yet!"

"Thank you, Officer Obvious," drawled Dean, as he paused from his walking, and glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. "Sam, don't you think I know all that? It's what we're going to Layla's house for—evidence."

Sam eyed his brother critically. He was dangerously on edge. There was a tension that hung around him that had nothing to do with the cold or fatigue. Dean yanked his elbow away from Sam's tight grip.

But Sam still refused to follow him, holding his ground, hands on his narrow hips. "Dean, what if you're looking too hard for something that may not even be there?" he asked, his voice soft, but carrying through the crisp morning air.

Dean stopped again, and this time turned around fully to look at Sam. "It's there. I _know_ it. It's there."

Sam exhaled in defeat. When Dean started acting like this, there was no stopping his brother. He shook his head in a last ditch effort. "Won't Layla be home? It's barely eight in the morning."

"She's a teacher," replied Dean easily with a small shrug. "She's already in the school. The house is all ours, all day." He turned away again, walking in the direction of Layla's place.

"What if someone else lives with her?"

Dean threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "You know what, Sam, why don't you just go back to the motel and tinker with your new laptop. Will that make you happy?"

Sam swallowed hard. "No," he countered. "It's just that I'm—"

"_Worried_, I know!" finished Dean, his voice rising in irritation. He stalked towards Sam, shoving his face closer to his. "Look, Sammy, if I'm wrong, then I'm wrong…and we'll leave. No harm, no foul. But if I'm right…_dude_, what if I'm right?"

Sam took a deep breath and still hesitated.

Dean gave him a look. "We've checked out cases with even less probability of anything supernatural than this one, Sammy. I mean, c'mon, someone commits suicide and we're all over that shit. And then here's Layla who was completely cured without any possible way of explaining it scientifically, and then in the next instant, her mom's dead, _again_ without any scientific or logical reason…and we're _not_ gonna even look into it?"

Sam swallowed the lump of doubt in his throat, and nodded once. His brother had a point. "Okay," he agreed. Dean nodded once, in approval, too, and started stalking away. He pulled his beanie lower over his head and followed his brother down the road. "Okay. But this is still not right." he muttered.

"I heard that."

He stuck his tongue out at his brother's back.

"Don't think I don't know what you just did."

He snorted. "Let's just get this over with."

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"Hey, Sam!" whispered Dean from across the room.

Sam looked up from his own perusal of books in Mrs. Rourke's bedroom. "Why are you whispering? We're the only ones here."

Dean cocked a brow and pursed his lips thoughtfully, "Hm. Just seemed appropriate. I mean, we did break-in and entered illegally, doesn't whispering just seem logical?"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, but walked over to where he sat on the recliner by the fireplace. "You found something?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, check this out: _Making a Blood-Pact with a Tree_."

Sam frowned at his brother, "Yeah. So? It's supposed to be age-old magic—it's a ritual that can be found in different cultures all over the world," he explained matter-of-factly.

Dean rolled his eyes and scoffed at his brother's scholarly tone. "I'm just saying, with a _tree_?" Then he gestured to the small stack of books he had found under a floorboard next to the recliner earlier in their search. "For someone who was so religious, she sure had a lot of _other_ interests."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe she just liked to read?"

Dean picked up a book, a mischievous smile on his face. He cleared his throat and intentionally deepened his voice, "Sacred Sex," he read out loud. Then he started flipping through pages, reading chapter titles in the same deep voice. "Tantra Yoga, Karezza, Sex Magic, and Sex Worship…," he chuckled. "You know, on second thought, this could be…educational nighttime reading."

"No, Dean, you're not keeping the book," Sam had to suppress his own exasperated grin. This search was proving to be a little more…revealing than he liked about the old woman he remembered only as Mrs. Rourke. "Like I said…maybe she just, uh…liked to…read."

"If she'd been hiding a stack of Harlequin Romance-Fabio-type-dirty-novels, I wouldn't be surprised. I mean it must've been tough for her to get laid. But c'mon!" Dean tossed down the copy of _Sacred Sex_, and picked up an ancient-looking, leather-bound one. "Some of these books are the real deal! You can't get _Stregheria_ rituals and text of this caliber just off of e-Bay."

Sam licked his lips knowing his brother had a point. "_Stregheria_ is some type of witchcraft, Dean. Still doesn't prove any link to the Demon that we're looking for."

Dean glared at him from under hooded lids. "We're getting close. I can feel it. 'Sides, witchcraft is intertwined with demon lore. You know that as well as I do."

"Okay, I know." Sam raised his hands in surrender. "You just keep looking on your side, and I'll keep looking on my side." He made his way to 'his' side of the room, carefully running his fingers over the book titles displayed on the bookshelves. These ones were less conspicuous. In fact, there were of the biblical bend that they had expected from Layla's mother.

His eye kept getting drawn back to three names that kept coming up on the spines of the books. "Lord Maam," he murmured, "St. Simon…Maximon…" He twirled the names around in his tongue, as if tasting them, trying to figure out how the three names fit in. Suddenly, his heart was pounding with fear and excitement. He pulled out one of the older books, "_Santa Muerte,_" he read the title, realizing immediately that it translated directly to, "Saint Death."

"What was that?" called out Dean from his side of the room.

"I'll be fucked…" muttered Sam, raising the book for Dean to look at. "Hidden in plain sight."

His older brother got up from his seat and sauntered towards him, a frown on his face. "What do you mean? What you got there?"

"What do you know about Saint Simon?"

Dean glanced sideways briefly, thinking. He shrugged, curled his lips in slight disgruntlement, and shook his head briskly. "Not much."

"Exactly. He's obscure, but he's worshipped by several followers who know little about him, too: A Demon disguised as a Saint."

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They were at a small table in the County Library, hunched over several articles and books, actually researching. Or at least Dean was. Sam wasn't being very helpful anymore.

He was tired, and massaged the back of his neck with one hand. But the tiredness was less due to the physical strain of being bent over the books, than in the growing realization that he might just be right.

He usually relished being right about Demons and the hunt—but not this time. This time, despite his zeal, he had actually wanted to just hit a dead end. He wanted to be able to shrug it off and say, 'Just kidding!' But with his luck, it wasn't looking very likely.

"Hey," he whispered towards his brother, who was sprawled over a book on Hekate, napping. Maybe it was the college experience, but he really envied the way Sam could just lay his head on a book and take a so-called twenty-minute "power nap".

Dean was usually more restless. He found it hard to just fall asleep anywhere, unless he was absolutely sure he _could_ sleep. Maybe it came from being a Hunter all his life. Or maybe it was because he had always been Sam's guardian. Either way, he wasn't likely to sleep in the next few hours at least.

He checked his watch and sighed heavily. It was running on five in the early evening, but darkness had already fallen in early winter Nebraska.

Sam mumbled, but didn't wake up. He was drooling all over the picture of the three-faced goddess on his book. Dean rolled up a piece of scratch paper into a ball, balanced it carefully on top of a stack of books, and then flicked the ball with his finger—straight onto his brother's nose.

"What the—" grumbled Sam, sitting up straight and blinking rapidly. "Damn it, Dean!" he hissed rubbing his nose as if he had flicked a rock at him instead of a piece of paper.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," he drawled, pulling a pile of books together and getting up. "Library's 'bout to close, gather what we need and let's get outta here."

Sam cracked his neck briefly, stretched his long body, and yawned widely. He shoved several notes and photocopies of book pages and articles into his backpack, and pushed his chair back. He stood up and started to follow Dean's example of returning some of the books.

"Dean, that's W412.36," reprimanded Sam.

Dean paused in shoving one of the books onto the shelf. He looked at his brother from the corner of his eye and shrugged. He pushed the book all the way in anyway. "How was I supposed to know that? Besides, what's the difference?"

His academically-inclined younger brother huffed, and pulled the book out. "It's the simple Dewey Decimal system," he sighed. "Just put the book back where the letters and numbers fit."

"Are you serious?" Dean groaned. "We'll be here all night!"

"It's not rocket science," said Sam, rolling his eyes at him.

"Isn't it someone's _job_ to put these books back in order anyway?" whined Dean. He hated all this bookwork sometimes. It was just so tedious and detail-oriented. So not his style.

Sam exhaled a long-suffering sigh, looking like he was somehow stuck with a two-year-old instead of his twenty-eight-year-old brother. "Dean, will you just put the books back where they're supposed to go?"

"No."

"What are you, like two?"

Dean shrugged, pulling a face. "Honestly, Sam, I just wanna get out of here. We've been here for _five_ _hours_! We could be out there doing something more useful."

Sam took a couple of books off of Dean's hands, and walked a little ways down the long line of book stacks. "Like what?"

"Like checking to see if Layla's mom has any of the tools for a summoning," pointed out Dean, his voice a hushed whisper, as he studiously looked around to make sure no one heard him mention Layla's name. "You know, like the stuff we found in Mississippi, outside Lloyd's Bar."

"She's gonna be home by now," cautioned his brother, stretching to his full height to return a book to the top of a shelf. "What exactly do we say? Can we check around and see if you have graveyard dirt, black cat bones, and yarrow flowers around the house? We're trying out a new recipe for hoodoo gumbo?"

"Oh, Ha. Ha. Funny." Dean gave his brother a sarcastic look. He scratched his head with the edge of the cover of a hardbound book in his hand, thinking of some way to get back inside Layla's house and continue the investigation. He glanced at the engraved illustration on the cover. It was a stone phallus in the middle of a crossroads. He smirked at the picture. "We don't have to say anything," he said, an idea forming in his mind. "I'll ask her out to dinner, while _you_ snoop around the house."

Sam gave him a disproving stare, and he put on his most charming face. "What?" he asked defensively opening his arms wide in a gesture of innocence.

"That's low, Dean."

Dean frowned lightly at his brother. "I like her, Sam," he said honestly. "I'd take her to dinner. I mean…it's not like I'd bore her, either. I'll show her a good time. It's not all for the sake of tricking her out of the house."

"Right," replied his brother, sarcasm tainting his tone.

Dean dismissed his brother with a wave of the book in his hand. "So, we've got a plan, then." Then he looked at the spine of the book. _R314.96_, he mused, then shoved the book somewhere between the T's. _Damn the Dewey Decimal alliteration system._

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"I'm glad you called," smiled Layla, sitting across from him at a small diner in town, putting her fork down.

Dean smiled widely at her. "Yeah, me too."

And if he were honest with himself, it was the truth. He had completely enjoyed dinner with Layla, even managing to forget every now and then why he had asked her in the first place. She made him laugh, and embarrassingly brought out the more chivalrous side of him.

He was almost sorry that dinner was over.

She looked at him suspiciously, a small smirk on her pretty face. "Though, I find that I'm asking myself why I'm here with you."

Dean cocked his head arrogantly, "Because you couldn't resist my charms, of course," he drawled playfully.

Layla rolled her eyes, but chuckled. "Or maybe I was just curious to see if you had any tricks up your sleeve?"

"You think?" Dean's lips widened into a shark smile. With Layla, he had the strange tendency to slip back and forth between dangerously flirtatious, and sincerely interested. She constantly brought up their differences, but then easily overlooked them. It kept him on his toes, and he enjoyed that.

"I don't doubt," she retorted, but her smile softened the effect. Then she looked at her watch, and smiled regretfully at him. "It's getting late," she started.

But Dean cocked his brow at her. "Am I being dismissed?" he asked ruefully. "That hurts."

She smiled at him, but there were no pretenses in her eyes. "I think so," she replied honestly. "You're a great guy, Dean,"

"But?" he asked, and he could have kicked himself for even pushing the issue. He knew better than anyone else the answer to the question 'why not?'

Her eyes slid away from his, that small smile lingering on her red lips. She hesitated in answering, and Dean waived her off the hook. "That's okay, Layla. You don't really have to answer that." He left a few bills on the table enough to cover the tab and tip.

She looked both relieved and disappointed—another startling mix of contrasts that was starting to define Layla. Dean stood up, and waited for her to do the same. Then he gave her a slow, not-quite-seductive-but-close smile, "How 'bout some dessert?"

She looked away from his smile, a small blush tainting her cheeks. "Sure."

"Lead the way."

They walked amiably down the street, and Dean found that he didn't actually care where they were going. He was strangely content to match her stride, letting his shoulder bump into hers as they avoided other pedestrians, allowing his fingers to brush hers lightly in a temptation that he knew was never going to become reality.

She turned to him, stopping suddenly. Her eyes were such a deep blue that he could look in them forever and never find his footing. She smiled tremulously, her voice breathless and hesitant, "Dean, I was thinking that maybe we—"

She was cut off by the insistent ringing of his phone. He jumped, slightly startled, before smiling apologetically at her. He slipped his hand into his pocket to check the caller ID and saw Sam's name flashing against the neon green screen. "Hold that thought," he smiled, then flipped the phone open.

"Yeah?" he voiced over the phone, not really hiding his irritation at Sam's terrible sense of timing.

"Dean, you were right."

Immediately, all the warmth and pleasure of the evening faded into the background. It was like he had been flying, and suddenly shackles were back on his ankles, pulling him back to ground at terminal velocity. He couldn't breathe for a moment, before he forced himself to speak. "What'd you find?" he whispered onto the phone, taking a few steps away from Layla.

"Everything. And more…but it all doesn't make sense right now," said Sam, his voice carrying his confusion across the distance. "I think I need to know where Mrs. Rourke died."

Dean closed his eyes briefly, knowing that from that moment onwards, he was going to have to play a part. His night had ended, and his job had only just begun. "Sure. I'm on it."

He flipped the phone closed, and shook off the coldness inside. Then he turned around and smiled at Layla, hoping that she wouldn't be able to tell the difference between now and two minutes ago.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, her head tilted in concerned interest.

"Yeah," he smiled wanly at her. "It was Sam."

"Oh! How is he?"

"Not so good," he replied with a small sigh. He looked at the coffee shop that they were standing outside of and nodded his head towards it. "Mind if we go in here?"

"No, let's." she said, nodding, her eyes inquiring and even worried.

Dean felt a stab of guilt at what he was about to do, but he plodded on anyway. They settled themselves into a warm corner, steaming cups of coffee and tea between their chilled hands.

"Layla," he ventured, his voice low and soft. "Tell me about how your mom died."

Her face clouded over instantly, and she reared back and away from him. She suddenly looked like a whole different person: closed off, unresponsive, and cold. Dean felt his heart chill even more at the sight.

"Why would that matter?"

Dean swallowed painfully. "I just thought you might help me help Sam," he murmured.

She frowned, but leaned in. Dean knew that using the word 'help' around Layla was like dangling a carrot in front of a hungry horse. She was gonna take the bait. "What do you mean? What happened?"

"Our father died a few months ago, too," he croaked, already hating where this was going. "It was sudden…and Sammy, well he took it really hard. They had just had a fight, and he felt guilty." Dean felt the lies rolling out of his tongue so smoothly, that he actually wondered whether they were lies at all.

"Oh, Dean," she murmured, practically melting with compassion. She laid a hand over his and squeezed gently. "What about you? How are _you _doing?"

"Me?" he asked uncomfortably. Trust Layla to think of him. "I—I'm fine. Moving on."

She looked like she didn't believe him—and Dean couldn't blame her. He was far from fine. Far from moving on where his father's death was concerned. It was the reason he was here in the first place.

It was the reason why waking up each morning was the most disappointing thing in the world. Why each breath felt stale, the taste of food felt like ash, and the touch of another human being felt like ice. He felt like he had died along with his dad.

Layla was intuitive, and Dean used that to his advantage, knowing that in he state he was in, she was likely to open up first. And he was right.

"My mom died at home," she whispered. "It was my aunt who found her. She said that she was just sitting on the couch, waiting."

Dean swallowed at the eerie picture that was being painted in his imagination.

"My aunt was supposed to come and bring her to the hospital to see me before they unhooked all the life-support," she whispered, her voice breaking every now and then.

This time, Dean placed his hand on top of hers, forming a small pile of his-and-her hands on the coffee table.

"They said her heart just stopped."

Dean nodded, and they shared a turbulent moment of silence, each swallowed in the despair of their thoughts. A moment later, he slid his hands from hers, and smiled apologetically. "I'll be right back," he muttered uneasily. He glanced purposefully at the blue door of the Men's Room, and she nodded, excusing him.

He quickly made his way inside, his finger already in his jacket pocket, speed dialing his brother. "Sam," he whispered into the phone.

"Yeah, what'd you find out?"

"She died at the house. Does that fit?"

There was a long pause. "I think so."

"Okay, is there anything else?"

"I think you should know that I found all the stuff in Layla's room, Dean. And under her bed I just found a _quincunx_—a cosmogram—basically a portable crossroad."

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head as his faith cracked under the weight of the implications of Sam's words. "No." he whispered, before hanging his head and clenching his fist. "_No_."

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**A/N2: Well, here's to my resolution to finishing this before the 7th! Wish me luck!**


	3. Chapter 3: Darkness

**DISCLAIMER: Supernatural ain't mine. So shut up.**

**A/N: Again, don't say anything about the lore and stuff. I made them all up. Just sit back and enjoy the angst.**

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**CHAPTER 3: DARKNESS**

Dean tossed and turned in his bed that night, getting himself tangled and untangled in his motel-white sheets. He counted and recounted the cracks on the ceiling. He got up to drink water, and got up to pee, several times throughout the night. He sat down and read through their research, scribbling notes on the margins and scratching them off. He cranked up the heat when it got too cold, then turned on the AC when it got too warm.

He did everything, except sleep. And think about Layla.

Dean had dropped off Layla last night, using the excuse that he needed to be with his brother. She had, of course, been gracious about it. And Dean used the term 'of course' loosely, because he realized that all of his preconceptions of Layla could very well all be misconceptions.

She wasn't who she pretended to be.

She was a devil disguised as an angel.

Dean wished, hoped, and even _prayed_ that he was wrong about that. But all the pieces evidence that Sam had shown him last night had pointed their fingers at Layla, marking her as the guilty party.

He was refusing to acknowledge all the emotions crashing into him. It was easier just to ignore them—because if he pretended really hard that they weren't there, then he didn't have to act like he cared.

He lay back down on his bed, utterly exhausted, but still unable to shut off his mind. He continued to relive each moment he had spent with Layla since coming back to Nebraska. He tried to remember whether there had been anything…off…about her.

But the truth was, he just didn't know.

He risked a glance at Sammy, who was sprawled on his back, half-tangled in his sheets. His breathing was even, long and heavy—a sign of how exhausted his younger brother was, too. He had virtually dragged his brother out of bed, made him work all day, non-stop, and right before that, he had "disappeared" for forty-eight hours. Something he knew had given his brother a couple of restless, anxiety-filled, sleepless nights. He justified his little trip with the thought that it hadn't been permanent. Just some time alone.

He wondered whether Sam was still having those dream-visions. It must be exhausting to see the future—knowing that there was little that he could really do to alter it.

Like he knew what they were supposed to do with Layla—but felt utterly powerless to do anything about it. He still wasn't prepared to believe the possible theory Sam had brought up: Layla had lied, and she had summoned the Demon—and had made the pact herself in exchange for her mother's life.

It seemed so wrong that the woman whose memory he had secretly held on to was so corrupted by the darkness to make such a pact and offer a life that was not her own. Layla had always represented something _good_ to him. She had been one of those people who had given him hope. Unlike Sam, it was harder for Dean to simply believe in _good _things that were constant. For him, life was about getting through one day at a time.

He enjoyed a good cup of coffee. A good lay. A good drive. A good night's sleep. A good song. A good hand of cards. A good hunt—and hell, even a good kill.

He didn't know if there was such a thing as a good life. Even a good _day_ was too much to ask for. And there weren't even any bands out there that stayed good after their 1st or 2nd albums. Some only even had one good song. Then there was Sam. He was a good kid; but only time—and his fate—would tell whether he would stay that way. Of course, Dean would make sure he did his damnedest to protect his brother. It was his duty—it was who he was.

Which was why, just as the dawn was breaking, Dean finally sighed into a deep sleep—right after he vowed to do his damnedest to protect Layla, too.

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"This may not be the same Demon as the one we met in Mississippi," cautioned Sam, as he and Dean pushed aside Layla's bed to reveal the _quincunx_. If Sam hadn't known what to look for, it would have been very easy to overlook. It was very subtle: a pattern often referred to as the "five-spot". There were five small dots, no more than 2-inches in diameter, burned, as if by acid, onto the wooden floors on four corners and in the center—like rolling a five on a dice. He saw his brother's jaw clench, a muscle ticking dangerously in his cheek.

"What makes you say that?" asked Dean. His voice was low and rough, slightly tired. Sam felt worry crawl through his veins, but knew not to say anything. Dean only got irritated and sarcastic when he tried to talk about things like this. "Chick-flick" moments, as his brother liked to call 'em. Sam personally referred to them as "being human." Of course, Dean would probably just roll his eyes and say 'potato, potatoe'. Sometimes his brother was just plain aggravating.

"I'm just saying…" sighed Sam.

Dean smirked at him slightly. "Afraid I'll get my hopes up? Worried that my wishes won't come true…or that they _would_?"

Sam ran a hand through his tousled hair and narrowed his eyes at his brother's quip. _Of course_, he was worried and afraid, though to be honest, he wasn't sure of which one. He just didn't know Dean as well as he thought he did. Not especially since Dad died.

"She has the yarrow in the four corners of her room, too. Strangely, all over her windowsill, there are words carved in Spanish," sighed Sam, pushing aside his own emotional turmoil, thinking of the task at hand.

Dean slowly approached the white wood of the window. It was clear that it had been painted over, but he could still make out the carvings. He carefully ran his fingers over the indented wood, murmuring as he went, "_Muerte_ _querida: Yo te pido con todas las fuerzas de mi Corazon, que asi como Dios te formo, Inmortal, ye ponderosa duena y Reina de las tinieblas del mas alla, que con ese gran poder que tienes sobre todos los mortals, inmenso me devuelvas el carina de Layla._"

Sam snorted, "Dude, your accent sucks."

Dean glared at him mockingly. "If you haven't noticed, Sammy, I'm _not_ Spanish,"

Sam smirked at his older brother's chagrin, and couldn't help ribbing him some more. "Neither am I," he retorted lightly. "But I can tell you that it's some sort of incantation…almost a prayer to Saint Death."

"Yeah?" challenged Dean. "My accent might suck, but I can tell you that there's references not only to Death, but also to the '_Queen of the Darkness Unknown'_ or something loosely based on that. And it's calling the higher powers to "return a beloved"…which in this case is probably Layla,"

Sam looked vaguely impressed. And Dean huffed, "You're not the only one with the brains in this family, Stanford."

"I never said that," said Sam, feeling slightly guilty, because, every now and then, he did think it. It was a stupid assumption, he knew. Just because Dean hadn't done so well in high school and never went to college, didn't mean that his brother wasn't intelligent. Sam knew all the reasons why Dean had gotten C's—because he had been out with Dad on hunts, almost every night. In fact, Sam should have been more surprised that Dean had never failed a class. Though he never aced a class (except for PE and shop), Dean always managed to get at least a C-. He wondered how, because Dean had often slept through class and spent a lot more time in the Principal's Office.

Dean shrugged away Sam's comment, and bit his lip thoughtfully. "So, who is this Queen of the Darkness?"

"Hekate?" mused Sam. "She is the Goddess of Death and the Crossroads."

"Yeah, but that's Greek mythology, Sam," pointed out Dean.

"Right, but in many cultures, summoning up the biggest, baddest damned demon means calling on the _Queen _of Demons," explained Sam as he watched his brother start walking around the rest of Layla's room.

Dean took one of the framed pictures on a dresser and stared at it. Sam felt his heart constrict as a flash of naked betrayal passed over Dean's face. "Queen of Demons, huh? What about Satan…or Lucifer…Beelzebub, or whatever he's called?"

Sam shrugged, still keeping a careful eye on Dean. "He sometimes only considered as her consort. The lesser of the two."

Dean snorted inelegantly at the information. But his eyes were still roving over Layla's smiling face on the picture. Sam knew that Layla had meant _something_ to Dean, he just didn't know what. But it was obvious that it ran deep enough to really hurt his brother.

"Hey, Dean," he said softly, "We'll get through this, okay?"

Dean briskly put the frame back down and smiled widely at Sam, his eyes crinkling at the corners, but were strangely blank inside. "Of course," he replied lightly. "Of course, we will."

He took a deep breath and continued to walk around the room. He stepped on a floorboard that creaked and paused. He and Sam locked eyes briefly. Leave no stone unturned…or so the saying goes. It applied to creaky floorboards, too. It was how they found Mrs. Rourke's secret stash of supernatural books and texts.

Immediately Dean was on his knees, Swiss Army knife pulled out. Sam took out his own, too, pulling out the longest blade. He crouched next to Dean, and they began to pry open the board. Sam noticed the tight, tense look on Dean's face: the clenched jaw, the compressed lips, eyebrows knitted together, eyes angry and intense. He knew Dean wore that face when he was afraid, and preferred to face the fear head-on.

They finally pulled the single board out and found a small white satchel. Dean reached brusquely inside and pulled out the white piece of cloth tied with a single string. He slipped his knife under the string and cut it open revealing a long ceremonial dagger wrapped loosely in a small white handkerchief. The hilt of the dagger had a carving of an upside-down cross, and a grotesque disfigured face. There was some dirt and dried yarrow flowers on the bottom of the bag, too.

"What's that?" asked Sam, pointing to the reddish spots on the white handkerchief.

"It looks like dried blood," murmured Dean. "Best way to make the strongest connection with a demon is through a blood pact,"

"I'm willing to bet that this is graveyard dirt, too," agreed Sam. "And that dagger, what is that carved on there?"

"An inverted cross."

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The female voice startled them so much that Dean jumped straight up in reflex, alert and ready for a fight. He noticed from the corner of his eye that Sam had fallen on his butt with a muffled thud. He threw a dispassionate glance at his brother who just looked acutely embarrassed.

"Layla," he murmured quietly, his eyes taking her all in. She had both hands resting angrily on her hips, head tilted angrily, blue eyes flashing. She looked like a beautiful, conniving witch. He felt everything inside of him go cold at the sight of her.

"What are you two doing in here?" she demanded, her voice accusatory and cold.

Dean saw Sam scramble to his feet, an apologetic look on his face. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Dean silenced him with a single, angry glare.

Sam swallowed briefly. Dean looked almost as angry as Layla. He had his fists clenched at his sides, a muscle ticking on his jaw, a vein throbbing on his forehead, and his back was perfectly rigid. "What are you doing with these?" demanded Dean, his hand slashing through the air, gesturing towards the items on the floor.

She narrowed her eyes at Dean, and Sam felt like he was caught in the crossfire of a war waged between the two. He cleared his throat uneasily, but they both ignored him. She stalked forward a frown on her face. "What's it to you?"

"Only that you've lied to me this whole time," he seethed.

"_I _lied to _you_?" she asked, clearly confused. "The nerve! _You're _the one who broke in and is rummaging through my house!"

Dean had the decency to look away. He was still staring out the window when he whispered, "I need to know, Layla. I _need_ to know what kind of demon you made a pact with." He turned his head so that his cold hazel eyes bore straight into her stormy blue ones.

"What are you talking about?" she asked coldly, her eyes darting between Sam's and Dean's.

Dean gritted his teeth, even more angry at her for pretending to be innocent. "This, Layla!" he yelled. "_This!"_ He wanted to stop. He wanted to not yell at her. But he _couldn't_ stop. He was so angry. And hurt. And just plain betrayed. He was tired of being the one who kept falling for the same thing—being utterly betrayed by the people he cared most about. It was the recurring theme of his life, and he was just sick of it.

How could she? She was supposed to have faith in the good guys, not turn to the bad guys as soon as it got rough. She was the one who had sat next to him and told him that faith meant hanging on even when things were bad.

He grabbed her by the upper arm, his fingers digging into her skin, painfully. He realized belatedly that this was the first time he had ever really touched her. Her eyes widened in surprise as he pulled her close to him. "How could you?" he seethed. "You're screwing with things that you can't even begin to understand!"

"Dean. Let. Me. Go!"

"What was the pact, huh, Layla? What were your terms with the Devil?" he taunted.

"Dean, let her go!"

"You stay out of this, Sam!" roared Dean. Then he pulled Layla even closer until his face was only inches from hers. "Is this why your mother died, Layla?"

He saw her eyes go wide with shock, then her face went pale, her lips quivered. Dean felt like a bastard. He abruptly released her and she stumbled back slightly. She was shaking. He watched impassively as a series of emotions crossed Layla's face. There was confusion, disbelief, betrayal, hurt, and anger, crashing one after the other. She opened her mouth, but only a small gasp of outrage escaped her lips.

Without warning, she reached out and slapped him so hard his head snapped sharply to the right.

The force left a sting on his face in the shape of her hand. He closed his eyes briefly, relishing the pain. Then slowly, he turned his head to look at her. Tears were streaming down her face, and she looked completely shattered. Like the façade she showed the world was just that: a façade.

His eyes shifted over to Sam, who was standing against the wall, a look in his face. It was that same look he had worn when they had gone to Montana and caught up with Gordon and some vampires. One vampire in particular. One _look_ in particular.

Dean ran a hand tiredly over his face, "Layla," he whispered, his voice quiet now, but still slightly reproachful.

"I don't know who you think you are that you think you _deserve_ an explanation," she murmured quietly, her eyes burning with a quiet anger and strength. "But these were all my mother's."

She slowly knelt down by Dean's feet and carefully repacked everything into the white satchel.

"Layla," Sam's voice broke the taut silence amongst the three of them. His tone was even and measured. Careful. Unlike Dean's outburst, he kept his voice low and calm. "Layla, do you even _know_ what you have there?"

She laughed, bitterly, tiredly, hollowly. "Of course, I do," she replied.

Dean's lips were twisted into a bitter frown. His throat was dry…and again, everything felt like ash and ice inside of him. "Yarrow flowers, graveyard dirt, ceremonial dagger, dried blood, a cosmogram on the floor, and an incantation on your windowsill…it all paints a very damning picture, Layla," he forced the words past his lips.

He saw her slim shoulders stiffen at his words, and suddenly she was shaking. He felt like he had just stabbed himself in the heart at the sight of her quaking frame. She looked up at him suddenly, throwing her blond hair over her shoulder.

She was laughing.

But there were tears in her eyes. "What in the world are you talking about?" She stood up quickly, clutching the bag close to her. "The graveyard dirt, as you like to call it, is dirt from the Holy Land. We went on a pilgrimage a few months before I slipped into a coma. The blood…it's not even blood. It's wine from the _Sangreal_…the symbolic Blood of Christ," She was really crying now, and Dean felt each one of his suspicions melt away, replaced by a burning self-disgust. "This dagger…it's just a symbol. The upside down cross—I know that these days it's considered the sign of the Devil, but it's not! It's Saint Peter's sacrifice—he didn't think he deserved to die the way Jesus did when he was condemned to be crucified as well. So he chose to be crucified upside down. And yarrow…it's a spiritual flower, yes. It's often used to restore someone's faith in God."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Dean," she finished through her tears. "My mother was just praying for me…"

Dean shook his head, tiredly massaging the back of his neck. How could she? Nope. The real question was how could _he_? How could he have doubted her? How could he have jumped to all the wrong conclusions?

He was a fucking bastard, that's why.

"What about the markings on the floor, Layla?" Sam's voice broke through her sobs. "And the window?"

She looked down at the floor, blinking rapidly. Confusion clouded her face, and she shook her head slowly. "I…I don't know…" She started shaking her head even more rapidly now. "I've never noticed those dots before."

"The window?" prompted Dean, his mind racing at the implications all over again. Layla walked slowly over to the window, her fingers tracing the words. "I painted over these," she whispered slowly. "When I came home…from the hospital…after everything…I found these."

"It's an incantation," murmured Dean. "To summon Death. Or a Demon. Lady Death. Saint Death. The Queen of fucking Darkness, we don't know yet."

Layla's eyes slid over to him, studying him carefully. "Is that why you're here? At my place? Back in my life?"

Dean clenched his teeth, but didn't answer.

Instead, Sam stepped in, "We're Supernatural Hunters, Layla. This is what we do, yes. And it's why we're here, in your house."

She turned accusatory eyes at Dean. "And you thought that I—" Her lips quivered bitterly. "You thought that I was caught up in all this? Because of what? Some flimsy evidence like what? I mean, why me?"

"Not you," Dean said clearly. "Your mother. She summoned the Demon…and traded her life for yours." He was certain of that now. She may have started all the research for things like dirt for the Holy Land, and yarrow to restore her faith, and all that _good _stuff. But often…darkness could be tempting. Sometimes, a little too much.

Another slap hit him on his cheek.

He raised a finger to trace the sting on his face. It didn't even hurt anymore. Nothing could compare to the pain that was already raging inside of him. The look in her eyes, the way her lips were slightly parted but unable to make a sound, the way her body was so taut yet fragile, shaking like a leaf but desperately trying to maintain composed.

"Get out," she said in a shaky, breathless whisper.

"We're not done."

"_GET OUT_!" she screamed.

"Dean, let's go," coaxed Sam.

"No," he whispered. His eyes flickered to Sam. "You go."

Sam looked like he was about to protest. But the look in Dean's eyes wasn't angry, or demanding. No, they were pleading. With a single nod of understanding, Sam turned to walk away, knowing his brother was only a phone call away.

"I asked you to leave, Dean," whispered Layla.

"I _can't_," he whispered honestly. He tentatively reached for her, afraid that she might shatter at his touch. She flinched as his hand curved around her shoulder, and Dean's heart broke.

He had hurt her so much. All because he didn't have enough faith in her. Because he had believed the worst in her all too quickly. Because to him, it was too easy to believe that people were capable of evil, of dark deeds, than they were capable of being good.

Layla wouldn't look at him, and he gently tilted her face to face him. "I don't believe you," she whispered, her midnight eyes were soft with tears. "I…I can't believe you."

"There are some very bad things out there," he said softly. He pulled her slowly to him, but she wouldn't move. So, instead, he stepped closer to her instead, pulling her against him in a tentative hug. "Layla, if you can believe in God…you can believe that there's evil, too."

She pulled away from him, and he let go, instantly feeling the loss of her warmth against him. She stared out the window, her fingers absently tracing the carved words on the windowsill. "You think that the sun is just a sun. Some people believe that it's a ball of light from a god. Others think it's a big ball of hot gases. But it's still just the sun. You never really think that it's anything more than that. You never really know."

"I always knew," he replied hoarsely. "I was raised differently."

She gave him a sad look, her eyes and lips tilted downwards, her face incredibly expressive even in the darkest moments. "That makes me sad. Knowing that. It makes me sad. It must have been hard…not to have that sense of…wonder…of faith."

"I can't really tell you," he shrugged. "I never knew any other kind of life."

She looked away from him and out of the window, staring at the horizon. "I was raised with faith. The kind that didn't break. But it seems kind of weak now. Seems kinda stupid now."

Dean didn't know what to say. He just stood where he was, and drank in the sight of her. So beautiful. So broken. It was like her faith had made her whole…and when that had been taken away… Dean closed his eyes and wondered briefly whether _he_ had broken her.

"I thought it was a miracle, Dean," she confessed.

"It might've been," he whispered. "But it wasn't. Not likely, anyway. It wasn't God this time."

"_Is_ there a God? Was it God who healed _you_, Dean?" she asked, turning to him, her eyes streaming with tears, almost begging him to reassure her. But how could he? How could he tell her that head been healed by evil, too. Not just once. But twice.

Two men had already fallen into the clutches of the devil because of him. He wasn't the person to ask about God. Not by a long stretch.

"I don't know about God, Layla," he whispered achingly. He pulled her into his arms, and this time, she came into them willingly. "I don't know about God. But I know that the devil's always waiting around. Sometimes, when people turn their backs on their gods, they find that the devil was just right behind them, tagging along…"

Layla was sobbing against his chest, her hot tears scalding him, burning a hot hole on his shirt. She sobbed against his painfully beating heart, thawing him inside. He ran his lips gently over her hairline.

Yeah, the devil was always waiting around. At least there was one good thing about that: it sure made it easy to find.

He kissed her forehead, gently, softly, almost lovingly.

He had his own deal to be made.

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**A/N2: This chapter took decades to write. Thought I had all weekend…seems like I was a little too busy. Hahaha…hope you liked this chapter. If you've got a couple of seconds, please review. Thanks**.


	4. Chapter 4: Need

**DISCLAIMER: Supernatural isn't mine. And Kripke won't even let me borrow it. Sheesh. What does he think I'm gonna do? Oh. Yeah. Play with his boys…**

**A/N: Well, there's one more chapter to go. But it's getting harder to bust them out. I've been sick, and my brain feels like mush. Dammit. I was so close to the deadline. But it just didn't work out, did it? Hahaha…oh well. It's still gonna be finished. Then after, I'll probably clean it up and edit.**

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**CHAPTER 4: Touch and Feel**

"Dean?"

"Hmm?" he murmured quietly against her hair.

Layla slowly pulled away from his embrace and looked up at him, her deep blue eyes clouded. She gingerly started wiping away at the tears on her face. "What does this…all…mean for me?" she asked, a slight tremor running through her voice. "I mean…if…if it's true…does this ultimately make me…evil?"

Dean swallowed painfully, his mouth going dry. She was asking him questions he had been asking himself for months now. And he still had no answers for himself, much less for her. Instead, he moved away from her and stood facing out the window, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He took a deep breath and exhaled. His breath formed a small circle of mist on the cold glass pane.

The sun was starting to set already, despite the fact that it was only past four in the afternoon. The temperature had dropped dramatically. Layla's room was starting to become gray in the dark. Dean chanced a quick glance at her. She was still the most vivid thing around him. Her blond hair shone gold in the setting sun. The last rays touched her face, giving it a pink hue. Her dark blue eyes reflected the dying light of the sun, and her red lips were slightly parted.

"Dean?" Those beautiful lips moved, caressing his name, but there was a quaver of fear in her voice. "Am I…?" she trailed off, unable to finish.

He belatedly realized that he still hadn't answered her. It was funny that she would turn to him, asking him all these questions that painfully echoed his own. It made him acutely realize the fact that he had no one to turn to. He had no one to go to for answers.

He just didn't know what to say to her.

He took a deep breath, weighing his thoughts. He was almost afraid to face her, afraid that she would see that he had no fucking clue. But he turned around to look at her anyway. He had expected to feel like he was facing a firing squad. He had expected accusation, and anger while she demanded for answers. What he saw, instead, humbled him to the core: she was looking at him in absolute trust. Her eyes searching for answers, her lips pursed in expectation, her head tilted almost like a supplicant.

Dean licked his lips nervously. His fists were clenching and unclenching in his pockets.

Suddenly, her small hand was on his arm, gentle, but squeezing slightly—comforting. A small smile softened her face, and her eyes slid down to the floor. "It's okay, Dean," she whispered softly. "I might be asking questions that have no real answers, anyway. You don't have to say anything."

This was why Layla always blew him away. Even when she was the one in need, she was still the one who gave. When she had been dying, and she had needed the cure—she had still been the one who had comforted him, even while he had been cured. And now, she desperately needed answers, after being tossed headlong into the world of the supernatural, yet she was the one reassuring him that answers weren't necessary.

His shoulders sagged slightly, as tension eased out of him. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and smiled rakishly at her. "Layla, I don't know the answers to your questions. But I do know that you're one of the best people I know. Nothing has changed that."

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she whispered softly.

They stood in silence again, watching the sun set. "So this is what you do?" she asked with a curious tilt of her head. "You find…demons?"

He gave her a sidelong glance and paused before replying, "Evil. We hunt _evil_. There's a difference…I think."

She nodded, accepting his answer. "There is a difference. I believe that," she assured him.

Dean chuckled hollowly. "Yeah, well sometimes the difference is between black and dark black. It's almost no difference. Kind of hard to see."

"But there IS a difference."

"Yeah, well nitpicking through the details is what I have Sam for," he quipped lightly. "That's what makes us different, I guess. My fate is to be the action hero. And Sammy gets to be my sidekick." He joked. "Like Batman and Robin."

She smiled slightly, her eyes meeting with his briefly. "I'm sure he's more than just your sidekick."

"Oh, he is," he replied with a shrug. "Just don't tell him that. I kinda like being the boss."

She half-chuckled, half-snorted. "He's bigger than you, y'know,"

"I don't think he notices yet." He shrugged. "He can be a little slow like that."

They shared a small laugh, and Dean reveled in the fact that they could even stand around and joke about this. A silence settled between them again, and he was sure that Layla was just slowly sorting through things in her head. He knew that she'd had her whole world turned upside down in a matter of a few hours.

He couldn't blame her for her fear.

Hell, he'd had his whole life to get used to the idea of evil—but he was still afraid of his own destiny.

"There might be little difference between demons and real evil…but there's a distinct difference between good and evil," she murmured quietly, almost to herself. "So, it makes me wonder, if…well, if it wasn't God who healed me…it makes me wonder if I was truly meant to die. And now that I'm alive, I wonder if my fate has changed."

Dean closed his eyes, understanding her completely. How often had he wondered the same thing himself? Every sleepless night, every moment of doubt before he made a decision, everything he hunted down—they all whispered echoes of the same questions. They were never silent. He carried them with him everywhere. _Maybe his fate had changed._

He glanced over at her, and saw the way her shoulders were slightly hunched over, her head bowed. He suddenly felt responsible for the fact that Layla now had to carry the same burdens as he did.

He should never have told her. It had been crazy the way he had blurted things out to her. How he had accused her. How he had dropped the bomb about her mother's death deal on her. In fact, he wasn't even sure if a deal had been made—it was still purely coincidental, even if he had told Sam how positive he was.

He wasn't sure until he made sure.

There was a small gasp from Layla and Dean was immediately alert. He glanced down at her, then around the room. But there was nothing. Instead, Layla just turned to him, her eyes wide. "Do _you_ ever wonder how you got healed? About your miracle?"

"No."

She furrowed her brow, and prodded with questioning eyes.

Dean rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, then pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. He wrestled with the idea of lying to her. But she was already one foot in, he might as well tell her the whole truth. She deserved nothing less, anyway.

"Remember how I tried to stop you from getting on stage with Roy Le Grange?" he asked stiffly.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah…" Dean watched as a look of understanding dawned on her.

"He's…was…is…" she struggled to put into words the confusion of her thoughts.

Dean gently laid a hand on her shoulder, to calm her. "He's a good man, Layla. But it wasn't God's power that flowed through him, like he believed. Hell, like everyone believed. It was a Death Demon. Sometimes, they're called Reapers. Sometimes, they can be controlled enough so that a person can choose to trade one life for another."

She looked like she was about to be sick. "What kind of person would do such a thing?"

"A desperate one," he replied tiredly. "Just like so many flocked to Roy's side—willing to believe in a miracle so long as it kept them alive—there are just as many willing to turn to the devil himself so long as _he_ kept them alive."

"But he _lied_ to so many people…and he…he…_killed_ so many people in exchange!"

"Not Roy," whispered Dean. "Roy was as much a victim as everyone was. He really, truly believed. It was Sue Anne."

"His wife?"

"She was a twisted bitch," he murmured. "Enough that she thought she could play judge, picking who to heal, and who to…trade."

"But how would she even have known?"

"How most people learn…they start by looking for a miracle," he replied tersely. He could feel the old anger burning inside of him. Some people just needed to learn to accept their fates. Some people should never meddle in things they couldn't even begin to understand. Some people should just leave the dead to stay dead. "And when there's no hope…when darkness comes closing in, it becomes too easy to look over your shoulder at the devil waiting there."

"It's funny, cuz I had faith, Dean. I never lost it," she confided in him. "I had a year to prepare for it…I was scared of dying, but I was ready to die. I could've just died right after they found the tumor. Maybe a year was too long. It was enough time for my mother to lose faith. And now, I just feel so…"

Dean stared at her, knowing that she would never really find the right word to express the gaping hole, the burning anger, the consuming guilt, the sheer helplessness of their situation. "I know how you feel," he said gently.

She turned blazing eyes at him. "_Do_ you?" she asked angrily. "Cuz I sincerely doubt that! A _stranger_ died in your place, Dean. Nobody sold their soul to give you life. It wasn't about you; it was all Sue Anne!"

Dean gritted his teeth at her scathing words. For some reason, he found that he needed Layla to know that she wasn't alone. That there were others like her who carried the same weight inside.

"You're wrong. I do know how you feel. Fact is, I feel worse," he whispered achingly, feeling utterly raw from the pain that always came to the forefront every time he thought of his father. "Two people now belong to the devil because of me."

She went completely still, her lips parting in surprise, shock, and understanding horror.

"My father," he whispered, and he couldn't quite breathe. It felt like a vise was gripping him tightly, squeezing his heart and all the air out of his lungs. "It was my fault. I was dying, too. And he made a deal with a demon. And here I am, _again_, completely healthy when I should be six feet under."

He felt Layla's small hand take his larger one in her own. She slipped her fingers between each one of his, twining their hands together. She squeezed gently, in comfort.

"Some people don't ever get second chances…" he murmured quietly. "But I got a third chance…but at a price that I didn't want to pay. So you see, I do get it."

In true Layla fashion, she tilted her head so that she could peek into his eyes and smiled kindly at him. "I'm sorry," she whispered softly. "I'm sorry that you have to carry the burden of two people's souls inside of you."

He snorted, and looked away from her. He could feel the tears in his eyes, and he couldn't bear the thought of having her see him like this. He tried to pull his hand away from hers, but she didn't release him. Instead, she pulled him to face her. "Dean, the motives of those who love us will never be understood. Just as what drives us to protect those we love are unfathomable to us. We just do what we have to do."

"Yeah, but it's not fair. We didn't get to choose."

"It's like faith, Dean. Love," she whispered softly, as if telling him a secret. "Love is faith, too. We take the good and the bad. It's a double-edged sword that cherishes and protects, but can also hurt and burden those on the receiving end."

Dean laughed. It was the kind of laughter that people release when they don't know how else to react. He slipped one hand behind her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, his thumb caressing her cheek. He leaned his forehead against hers, and he continued to laugh that painful laugh, tinged with sorrow and tears and regret.

"Layla, how can you say the things that you do? How can you lose everything you've ever believed in, and still say those things?" he demanded softly, peering into her eyes, searching them for answers. He looked deeply into them, as if whatever answers he could find in there would somehow save his soul.

She looked into his eyes—those green and gold depths that were swimming with pain. She had never known anyone who carried so much weight inside as this man who was asking her for answers. But she had no answers to give. She was just as lost as he was.

"Don't think for a moment that I don't feel completely…guilty,"

He inhaled sharply, moving his face away from hers. "You have _nothing_ to feel guilty for," he said vehemently. "You're completely innocent in all this, Layla. You couldn't have known at all. You weren't even a part of this world of hunters and demons, and devils and death. You couldn't have known."

"I just feel so…helpless and just _wrong,_" she sighed. "But you're lucky."

"How do you figure? 'Cuz I'm some kind of Pied Piper of Evil? I draw people to me towards their deaths?" he asked bitterly.

She laid a hand on his chest, just over his strong, beating heart. "No, because your father left you with a real legacy."

He laughed again, looking away from her. A bitter, angry laugh that tasted sour in his mouth. A _legacy_? His father's legacy was to leave his two sons alone to finish what he started; to leave them to stand against the coming darkness, expecting them not to fall into the precipice that they vicariously walked the edge of. "My father's legacy, as you like to call it, is death. Everywhere we go, there is death, Layla. Let's not romanticize what I do, okay?"

She jutted her chin forward, stubbornly. "I wasn't," she said straightforwardly. "But your father left you the ability to do something about what happened to him. He left you the legacy to fight evil, Dean. My mother just…she just left me. I envy you. When you were healed by Reverend Roy, I didn't envy you. I was happy for you. But now…"

"Don't, Layla. Just don't, okay?" he demanded with quiet conviction. "My life isn't anything to be envious about. It's a life that's bound to this so-called legacy. You are not me. You are different. And…" He paused, searching for the right words. He reached down and framed her face tentatively in his hands. "…you are worth dying for."

Tears shimmered in her eyes. "How can you _say_ that? You don't know me, Dean."

"I've never met anyone who made others better by just being who you are," he said softly, earnestly. "You made me better." And with those words, Dean remembered that he hadn't put up a fight against the Reaper that day. When Roy Le Grange laid his healing hand over Layla, Dean hadn't fought. She had been worth it.

She was _still_ worth it.

But she didn't look like she believed him. Maybe she never really would. But he hugged her close to him anyway, wishing that somehow he could just suck her pain away. Someone so good shouldn't ever be touched by evil.

He felt his hands smooth down the curve of her back, thinking in some way that he could somehow erase any trace of evil that ever dared touch her.

He slowly, peeled her away from him, so that she had no choice but to look at him. He stared intently at her, wondering again, how she could be so good. Purposefully, he lowered his head towards hers.

She kept her eyes on his until it was impossible to see him clearly, before her lids fluttered shut. At that moment, Dean let his lips rest gently over hers. His mouth was closed, chaste, dry and warm. Hers were full, soft, and with the pressure of his lips on hers, parted.

That was all the permission Dean needed from her—all the encouragement. He opened his mouth over hers and kissed her deeply. His eyes fell closed, too, as he let himself sink into her.

There was something almost painful about kissing Layla. It was like kissing a dream, knowing that when he opened his eyes, it'd be gone.

But she leaned into him, and pressed herself fully against him, and suddenly, all thoughts of dreams, and gentleness left him. All he could think of was the feel of the woman in his arms. She was warm and pliant, and surprisingly passionate. She opened to him, her fingers in his hair and splayed over his back. He slipped his arms fully around her and lifted her flush against him.

He released her mouth, but not her. He still held her close, his heart pounding, desire and intent in his face. She looked at him, and there were no questions in her eyes. There was only him.

He kissed her again: passion and compassion, fierceness and tenderness. The contrasts that were Layla made him feel whole.

"Are you sure?" he asked hoarsely, his voice already deep, made even rougher by his desire.

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes, Dean."

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…**and cut! NC-17/M-rated material happened here. **

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They were quiet for a while, and their fingers found their way to each other and twined loosely.

Dean didn't know what just happened. One moment, he was furious at Layla for making a pact with the devil, the next he had felt like a complete heel when he found out just how wrong he was. Then, he had wanted to comfort her. Instead, she had comforted him. He had told her _feelings_ he hadn't shared with anyone else. And then all he had wanted to do was sink into her. It hadn't necessarily meant _this_ though.

This had just been plain surprising.

Good surprising…but surprising nonetheless.

"Are you okay?" he asked, turning his head to face her. He wasn't sure whether to act nonchalant about what had just happened, or be embarrassed by it. He wasn't much sure about her at the moment.

She smiled at him, and squeezed his fingers reassuringly.

"Good," he murmured, "'cuz I'm not."

She cocked a brow at him in question. He ran a hand over his face tiredly, and pulled his hand away from hers. "I'm sorry, Layla," he mumbled. "I…I really…didn't…"

She captured his hand in hers again. "I wanted to, Dean. Didn't you?"

"Hell, yeah," he chuckled. "But y'know, I don't…"

"No expectations, okay," she assured him. "I know. I just needed to feel something more than the emptiness at the moment."

He nodded in understanding. They had both needed the closeness. The human touch. Maybe just the need to feel alive with each other, surrounded by all the death on their behalf. "Okay."

Then he pulled her to him, along with the covers, wrapping them both in warmth. He watched as she drifted off into sleep.

"Thank you," he mouthed soundlessly.

Then his eyes were drawn to the darkness that had fallen outside the window. His lips twitched, and his arms tightened almost reflexively around Layla's sleeping form.

He wasn't sure until he made sure.

He tightened his jaw, and strengthened his resolve. He knew what had to be done. He had a demon to summon, a soul to save, and a life to trade. In essence, he had a job to do—a legacy to uphold.

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**A/N2: I know the chapter was choppy. Or it seemed so to me…but like I said, bad head cold combined with all kinds of pharmaceutical products haven't been very conducive to writing. Please review and help me straighten things out that need straightened out, cuz it's clear in my mind, but might not be on paper/screen. Thanks. **


	5. Chapter 5: Worth

**Disclaimer: Still ain't mine. Though I did ask Santa for it…so I'm still crossing my fingers.**

**A/N1: Thanks for waiting around and reading. I know it was a long time coming, but like I said…I was bound to lose my grip on the story. But at least it's finished. Alleluia!**

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**CHAPTER 5: WORTH**

Dean untangled himself from Layla's sleeping form. He knew what had to be done, and he preferred to do it when no one was the wiser.

He pulled on his jeans quickly, tucked Layla in, and slipped on his shirt. He found his phone and dialed Sam's number.

"Hey," answered his brother, his voice tense and expecting.

"Everything's good," he said, slowly making his way through the house.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Look, don't wait up for me."

There was a pause, a hesitation, a heartbeat where Dean thought his brother had somehow managed to read his intentions through the open phone line. Then Sam's weary voice filtered through, "Why?"

Dean gritted his teeth. He hated lying to his brother. If anything, he preferred not to say anything. But sometimes, he had to do what had to be done. "Hey, you know me…damsel in distress, knight in shining armor…what do you think?"

Another pause, another hesitation, another heartbeat, and Dean thought he was so transparent Sam must have seen right through him. But all his brother sighed onto the phone was, "See you in the morning,"

"Yeah…" he replied, suddenly realizing that he didn't want the conversation to end this way. "Uh, Sammy?"

"Dean?"

"You're a good kid. Thanks."

A longer pause, a heavier hesitation, several heartbeats, and Dean realized he shouldn't have said anything at all.

"What's going on, Dean?"

"What? A brother can't be nice to his brother?" he chuckled onto the phone. "I was feeling chick-flicky, okay? Layla kinda has that effect on people, so just take the compliment and don't be such a baby about it."

He could literally hear his brother swallow and lick his lips, trying to decide whether to drop the subject or not. Dean took the decision from Sam's hands. "Dude, I got things to do, if you know what I mean," he chuckled onto the phone.

"Okay, uh, thanks, I guess."

"Yeah."

"And Dean?"

"What now?"

"You're a good brother. Thanks. Y'know, for being around."

"Always," he replied. Then he hung up quickly, before Sammy and his emo-moments made him question what he was about to do. He didn't want to think about how short-lived his 'always' really was. He opened Mrs. Rourke's bedroom, and went straight for the hidden compartment under the floorboards. He pulled out the necessary book and materials and made his way towards the cellar.

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It didn't take long.

Less than a second, maybe.

But there she was, standing in front of him, red eyes gleaming with malicious intent. Dean kept his breathing even, kept his gaze insolent as he let his eyes rove over her.

"Blonde," he commented with a leer. "Now you're catching on." He stalked around her, and she turned in a small circle to allow him the inspection. She was beautiful, curvaceous, seduction oozing from every pore. Bedroom eyes followed him around the room, slightly hooded. Full red lips parted seductively, pink tongue slipping between them like she wanted to devour him.

She posed for him, one hand on her hip, and she chuckled throatily. "Mmm, yes. Temptation is what I do best. Do you like what you see, Dean?"

He smirked at her, but said nothing, continuing to look her over. They eyed each other, measuring each other up. Their last encounter at the crossroads in Mississippi had left both on edge, on their guard.

The Demon's eyes flickered throughout the room, and Dean drew his lips back from his teeth in a teeth-baring smile. "Don't worry, Darlin', nothing to be afraid of this time," he drawled, this time his eyes were hooded and he was looking at her like he was temptation himself.

She sauntered lazily over to him, and casually draped a hand on his shoulder. She leaned towards him, and Dean fought every urge to throw her away from him in self-preservation. Every nerve ending vibrated with the need to either push her away or bring her ever closer to him.

Her lips hovered just over his ear, and it took all of Dean's willpower to control his near-instantaneous lust. "I'm not afraid, Dean…" she murmured huskily. "Know why?"

Dean gritted his teeth. Refusing.

"Ask me why, Dean Winchester," she urged seductively.

"Why?" he ground out, his throat constricting tightly around the word, forcing it out of his parched mouth.

She nuzzled the sensitive area at the juncture between his jaw and neckline, that bone-melting spot just under his ear. Her tongue flicked out lightly, and Dean sucked in a breath. "I asked you a question, Bitch…don't be rude now."

She laughed throatily—full-bodied, deep and dark. She tilted his head so she could see into his eyes, and Dean had to wonder whether she had known all along. Since Mississippi. Since the first time they met.

"Oh, Dean…you beautiful, delicious, delicate man," she chuckled in amusement. She came to stand in front of him, and flattened her palms over his chest. Her fingers raked lightly over his pectorals, and they flexed on their own volition, responding to her touch. "I'm not afraid because you're already _mine_."

Dean stood stock still, his eyes flickering over her. He placed both his hands over hers, and they stared. "Not yet," he retorted quietly.

A lascivious smile snaked its way to her lips. "Well, then, Dean…What's your pleasure?"

His lips curled in derision, and he slowly, but deliberately, pulled her bodily away from him. "Hardly a pleasure."

"Temptation is always a pleasure, Dean…a _desire_," she murmured, retrieving her hands delicately from his grasp. She slipped a finger between pouted lips. "What can I tempt you with?"

Dean leaned back away from her and studied her. She was sultry and yet somehow, the body this demon had possessed, maintained a sense of innocence. She was beckoning, yet her beauty held a guy in check. He licked his lips deliberately. "Tell me about Layla Rourke."

She threw her head back and laughed. The sound was almost hysterical. "Oh, Dean…Dean…how utterly _tragic_ of you."

He cocked a brow at her, but didn't say anything.

"Well, Dean Winchester wants to know, and I don't want to be rude," she purred lightly. But her eyes glinted with cold malice. "Her mother's soul was not nearly worth the trade. Trading for life is very, very pricey. Of course, I own Layla's soul, too. After ten years, Death will catch up; my hounds will hunt her down, until I get my due. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Ten years," he scoffed. "Don't you know any other number?"

She shrugged lightly. Then she reached up to him, and cupped his face with one hand. Her long fingernails lightly raked over his jaw, crunching against the stubble. "You could have had _anything_…but you want to trade your soul for hers to be free…is that it?"

Dean pressed his lips together, unable to answer her question yet. A verbal agreement might be misconstrued if he said anything out loud.

Her fingernails pressed into his skin until he flinched at the pain. "Why her, Dean? This little mouse of a creature?"

"She deserves it."

"Because she's been a very good girl?" she retorted mockingly. "And sleeping with you, Dean, is that what good girls do?"

He narrowed his eyes dangerously at her. He had felt guilty about sleeping with Layla. He had felt unsure about how he had tainted her…how even in lovemaking he had somehow destroyed something good about her, too. And of course, the Demon knew that.

"Why not your father, Dean?" she whispered enticingly. With a snap of my fingers, I could have him back with you. Easy."

Dean looked away from that temptation, knowing that it was an old card that she was playing. But one that still trumped him every time. She laughed in his face, at his weakness. "You know, I just want to warn you, chivalry is dead. This isn't likely to impress her."

"I've already impressed her for one night," he drawled arrogantly. He pulled her hand away from his face and glared dangerously at her. "Can it be done?" he demanded.

"Your soul for hers?" she smirked. "Easy. Y'know, it occurs to me that this little offering is almost worth a trip to Heaven…if you believe in that stuff. _Almost_, right, Dean? But not quite."

Dean gritted his teeth.

"Because you _want_ this," she murmured seductively. This time, she pressed her body—all lush curves and softness—against his. "You're at a crossroads, aren't you, Dean? You don't know where you belong anymore. You don't know what to do anymore. So confused. So tired. You want to not be here anymore. You want to be over."

Dean closed his eyes at the truth of her words. She knew. She had known all along.

"Dead things should stay dead, isn't that right, Dean?" she taunted, her breath fanning over his lips.

She leaned in and kissed him lightly, but Dean kept his lips stubbornly shut. "What would Sammy do without you?" she murmured against his lips, her voice was mocking. "What would happen to him without you, Dean?"

"What would happen to his destiny?"

"Is Layla worth your death…and Sammy's, too?"

She stepped away from him, head cocked, gray eyes flashing red. She was beautiful. Tempting. Beckoning. Dean could feel himself start to lean towards her like a magnet. His lips opened to form a word, _yes_.

"No."

The voice came from the doorway.

Dean snapped to himself, and pulled away from the Demon with a start. His eyes flew to Layla, who stood angrily at the door, her body straight and fragile, her blue eyes blazing icy fire. "No."

The beautiful Demon rolled her head back in a gesture of exasperation. The red in her eyes darkened to blood.

"I am not letting you do this for me, Dean!" cried Layla.

Dean gritted his teeth. He could still say yes. He could still finish this. He could still…

"I couldn't live knowing that you had made this bargain," pleaded Layla. "I already lost my mom. I can't go on knowing I lost you, too…and possibly Sam."

"She owns your soul," he said flatly. His eyes were flat. His heart beat a slowly, steady, dull rhythm. He felt like ashes again. Dead.

"But I'm alive _now_," insisted Layla, stepping towards them. It was clear she was afraid of the Demon, but she still came closer.

"Puh-lease," drawled the Demon. "You have no idea what kind of hell you're in for, Little Girl."

"She's right."

"I don't care," insisted Layla stubbornly. She kept inching closer to Dean, her blue eyes shifting warily between the Demon and Dean. "It's my hell, Dean. Mine. Only mine. Don't take this on. It's not yours to take on."

"Layla…sweet, stupid Layla," sang the Demon. "Don't you see that Dean has a hero complex? He _wants_ to die. He _belongs_ in Hell."

Dean couldn't argue with that. With the things he'd done, the things he'd seen, the things he knew, the blood on his hands…there was no place for him but Hell. It was a welcome reprieve as far as he was concerned.

Layla raised tear-filled blue eyes towards him. But her voice was strong and resolute. "No."

Dean looked pleadingly at her. "Layla…she's right. I belong there. You don't."

"We have ten years before that happens, Dean," whispered Layla. "Ten years is a lifetime in exchange for something that has already been done. Ten years is more than enough for someone who had been ready to die months ago. But an eternity of living…Dean, that would never even come close to being enough knowing I didn't stop you from doing this."

"You don't understand, Layla," he started.

"What I understand is that this is my part, Dean," she whispered achingly. "This is my legacy."

"You two are such saps," said the Demon, rolling her eyes at them. She flicked her wrist towards Layla. Dean flinched slightly, but nothing happened. The Demon noticed and turned angry eyes towards him. "Dean?" she said testily.

He grinned tiredly at the beautiful woman. "Fooled ya once, shame on me. Fooled ya twice…you're just greedy." he smirked. He pointed up at the ceiling. "Ever heard of black light paint? It's invisible. But it's there."

The Demon fumed. "We are not done." But before Dean could demand anything more from her, the blond threw back her head, and went stiff, as thick black sludge-like material erupted from her mouth before disappearing through the ceiling.

The blond demon-host slumped down to the ground, and Layla was immediately over her, cradling the unconscious woman in her arms.

"She's not gonna remember anything," he warned her flatly.

Their eyes locked for a moment, and Dean knew that he had made the right decision. It wasn't the decision he wanted, but it was the right one.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice broke out as he stormed through the door. He hooked both his hands on the threshold to stop himself from barreling through. His eyes roved between the two blond girls on the ground, and Dean standing over them, shoulders slightly slumped.

Dean's eyes locked with Sam's. He had been ready for anger, for fear, for concern…for everything.

But he wasn't prepared for the tears that shimmered in his younger brother's eyes. In three strides, Sam had caught him in a large bear hug. He didn't struggle, but instead patted his brother lightly, returning the hug.

"I don't care, Dean," he heard Sam mutter. "I'm just glad you're still here."

Dean nodded slightly, accepting that he was still around. That Layla was looking up at him with tired, but relieved eyes. That Sam had him crushed in a hug borne of relief and love. That he felt only the smallest bit of disappointment with how the night turned out, because mostly, he just felt like he had some kind of life again.

Even if it was only to stay alive long enough to protect Sam's destiny. To keep his father's legacy for just a while longer.

"Ooo-kay," he said, pushing away from Sam after the hug got too discomfiting. "That's enough, Sam, okay, I'm not goin' anywhere. You can let go now, before I feel the urge to lay my head gently on your shoulder and start slow dancing to Kenny Chesney. That might be awkward."

"Uh, right." Sam stepped back and grinned sheepishly at him. He surreptitiously wiped the tears from his eyes. "Layla called me."

"How'd you know?" Dean asked Layla.

"Because you're you, Dean," she whispered softly. "Because this is what you would do for others."

"Not always," he denied tiredly.

She shrugged. "Nobody's keeping count," she replied. "What matters is that you would have."

The blond woman in Layla's arms started stirring. Sam stepped forward and reached for her. "I'll take her upstairs," he murmured, and gently lifted the woman into his arms. He turned to look at Dean before going up the stairs.

Dean's heart constricted at the look on Sam's face. He looked like a kid again. The way he used to when he needed reassurance. Back then, Sam had looked at him like that when he had needed to know whether Dad was coming back. Now…"I'll be right up," he reassured his brother, his voice just a bit gruff from emotion.

Sam nodded his head tentatively. "Okay." Then he disappeared up the steps.

Layla walked over towards him and slipped her arms around his waist. She gently laid her head on his chest, and Dean wrapped his arms around her. They stood like that for a moment, just letting the events of the night soak through them.

"Layla," he murmured. "I just want you to know that…I don't regret anything from tonight."

"Neither do I," she whispered, knowing that he needed her to voice out her reassurances.

"Your soul…" he whispered, not knowing how to broach the subject.

She laid a finger on his lips and smiled. "Well, weren't we waiting for a miracle?"

He smiled at her, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "I'll pray for you, then."

Well, at least he had something to live for: A brother to protect, a legacy to uphold, a woman to pray for, and a miracle to look forward to. It could be worse.

**THE END.**

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**I know it's kinda rushed…but I was a-hankerin' to just finish it. I hope y'all liked the story. I'm pretty sure I can beef up the angst later. And I'm pretty sure I will. But for now, I'm done. Thank you for reading. It's been my pleasure.**


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